


hallucinogen

by bgmblues



Series: Smoke [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Decisions, Dogs, Fluff, Hallucinations, M/M, Marijuana, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Hange Zoë, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-03-09 18:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18922267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bgmblues/pseuds/bgmblues
Summary: ̶>̶B̶e̶r̶t̶o̶l̶t̶ ̶p̶i̶c̶k̶s̶ ̶u̶p̶ ̶a̶ ̶l̶e̶s̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n ̶f̶a̶v̶o̶r̶a̶b̶l̶e̶ ̶h̶a̶b̶i̶t̶.̶Reiner decides it's easier to ignore things than to fight them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> its time for reiners considerably more angsty sequel! enjoy

You were easily the tallest person there and that alone made you feel anxious. You suddenly start to understand Bertolt’s need to make himself smaller, shoulders hunched and legs drawn up. But you still push yourself to greet the receptionist and walk back with your therapist when they come to get you. 

It's a little bigger than a doctor's office. Bookshelves filled with books, games and stuffed animals take up one wall, while a computer desk takes up another. You gravitate towards one of the two big chairs, facing away the the windows. The blinds are pulled down. 

“Nice to meet you. I'm Hange, and I'll be your therapist,” Hange says before promptly plopping down in an opposite chair. “First off, what pronouns do you use?”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Uhh...he him,” you say back. Hange gives a clear nod and scribbles something down on paperwork you'd filled out earlier. 

“Alright, thank you Mister Braun. I use they them myself. I will not hesitate to move you to a different therapist if you don't respect that.” They say. You somehow don't wince at their tone--clearly something like that had happened before. You just dutifully nod.

“So then...why are you here?” They ask. You anxiously scratch the front of your neck. 

“I'm just, uh...not doing great,” you sigh, looking away. “My parents are splitting up and school's...A lot.”

Hange nods in response, scribbling on a different piece of paper. 

“You wrote down you've been having insomnia, nightmares, panic attacks, suicidal thoughts...does that all sound right?” They ask. You halfheartedly shrug. You don't really want to bring up the... _ other _ thing.

“Yeah,” you admit, focusing down at your hands. “I haven't been feeling too hot lately. My boyfriend wanted me to come in and talk to someone.” You purposely drop the word boyfriend in a silent message of  _ I'm like you _ . Hange picks up on it but makes no comment towards it.

“I see,” they say. “Are you in any danger?” You're not exactly sure what this means, but you shake your head anyway. Hange offers a smile.

“That's a relief to hear.” Another scribble on the papers. This time, they set the paper and pen down. “So then, what do you like doing in your free time?” 

“I played football, but the season's over now,” you say, “And I play guitar.” You'd finally talked your parents out of the weekly lessons started back during 8th grade, but practicing was too ingrained in your head. 

“Guitar, eh? Do you write any music yourself?”

“I don't,” you say dumbly. “That's a good idea though. I could totally get Bertolt to sing for me--oh, uh, he's my bertfriend.” You realize your rambling, culminating in a misspeak, and slap your forehead of the palm of your hand. 

“Boyfriend,” you repeat. “He's my  _ boy _ friend.”

“How long have you been together?” Hange asks, leaning forward to rest an elbow on their knee. You can relax at this; you loved talking about Bertolt. Much to his embarrassment.

“Like, uh...five months, I think?” You respond, counting backwards in your head. You'd asked him out not long after the football games had started in September and it was late January, so…

“Four months,” you quickly correct. “But he's been my best friend since we were kids.” Hange just nods in response. 

“He's very important to you.” They say, very much matter-of-factly.

“Extremely.”

“Are your parents supportive of you?” They ask. They shift a little, head in their hands but clearly attentive. You look down, halfheartedly rubbing your arm. 

“My mom...cares,” You force out. “But she doesn't really  _ get it _ , y'know…” You go from rubbing your arm to itching your leg. 

Yeah. Your dad. He was unfortunately part of your life. You open your mouth once, twice, to say something about him. Jumbled up words are all that come out. 

“My dad,” you mutter. “He's, uh…” Shitty and absolutely screwed your life up--

Your shoulders slump forward. “He's...there,” You sigh. You hadn't exactly  _ told _ him about your relationship with Bertolt but you doubt he's unaware of it. At least he had been out of town with his  _ friends _ over New Years. Your mother's questions and judging glances over how you'd turned up bitten, bruised and in Bertolt's old clothes had been hard enough. (He has a cat now, you'd said. Between Bertolt's father’s allergies and the way you showed up, you don't think she believed you one bit.)

“You mentioned they're splitting up,” Hange says. You nod. So really, your dad wouldn't be there much longer. 

“They are. I'm 18, so I dunno where I'm gonna live,” you respond. It kind of scared you, but you weren't going to admit that.

“What do you think about it?” 

You blink. You'd purposely tried to avoid thinking about it up until now, even when talking with Bertolt. 

“I dunno,” you say with a shrug. “It was something that probably should've happened a long time ago.”  _ I don't know why it didn't _ , you add to yourself. 

Hange looks less than impressed but doesn't push it. That doesn't seem like a therapist-like thing to do, you think. Aren't they  _ supposed _ to push it? They lean back again in their seat and cross their arms. 

“Alright,” they say with a sigh. “We're starting to run out of time, so one last question. What do you want from these sessions?” That would certainly explain the questions about your family dropping. You find yourself cranking around to look for a clock but give up quickly. Maybe they just had a good sense of time. 

“I want...” You trail off. What did you want? The words weren't clear in your head. You just wanted to be happy. You want to feel human. 

( _ But you're not _ , says the voice tucked away in the back of your head. You ignore it again.)

“I want to feel better,” you finish. Hange offers a small, reassuring smile. 

“We can work on that,” they promise. You think, maybe you can trust them. 

_ “You can't be saved.” _ Says the voice.

You scratch your leg at the feeling of a bug crawling on you. The wall warps for just for a moment when you look at it a little too long. It's probably because you stood up too quickly. Right?

Right.


	2. Chapter 2

“Happy Valentine's day,” Bertolt says, a rather sly look on his face. Or, it would look sly if it weren't obvious he was incredibly high. He leans into you and the smell of smoke and cotton candy fans your face. He drags you back down into his bed. Half a blunt is still burning on his bed stand. You reach over him to take it yourself. 

“I put on special clothes for you,” He says. You raise an eyebrow, breathing out the smoke from the blunt. Yes, of course. How did you not notice his...button up shirt and khakis. He must take note of your amused and disbelieving look because next you know, he's struggling beneath you to unbutton his shirt.

“Not  _ this _ ,” he huffs. Finally his shirt falls open to reveal…lingerie. You almost drop the blunt when your mouth falls open. Bertolt looks smugly back up at you.

“Bertl, babe, you look fantastic--” his hands smooth over your arms and chest. “--but  _ where _ did you get this?”

“Pieck and I went to a store,” he says matter-of-factly. “An  _ adult _ store.” You snort. 

“An adult store,” you repeat back with a laugh. “And then she gave you weed. How much have you had? You look really fuckin’ stoned.” He doesn't just laugh at this. He  _ giggles _ . You set the blunt back down and find yourself laughing as well.

“Maybe too much,” he breathes. “Have you ever been in an adult store? There's a lot of stuff in there. Pieck wanted me to get some other stuff too but I was like, Pieck we've only had sex once. I'm not getting him a dildo for valentines day.” He's absolutely rambling, but there's something about it that's endearing. You can't keep your hands from wandering back up to his face and brushing against his cheeks.

“You won't get me a dildo but you'll get yourself pretty underwear?” You joke. His mouth falls open. 

“I should've gotten a dildo!” he huffs. You roll your eyes and lean in to kiss him. There's a vague intensity as you do; his arms wrap around you and his tongue slides against yours. 

He pulls back abruptly. You may or may not whine--the kissing had only just started--as he looks over your face.

“Wait,” he says dumbly. “You'd actually want a dildo?”

You burst out laughing. 

“Yeah, sure,” you manage to say. It takes you a moment more to take control of your laughter. “I like shoving shit up my ass.” Bertolt gapes. 

“Don't word it like that!” He exclaims, flustered. You know the hidden meaning that; you  _ do _ ?

“You mean you  _ don't _ ?” You laugh.

He's suddenly more shy and embarrassed as he shrugs. His ears start to get a little red when you laugh again.

“So you bought yourself pretty underwear, didn't get me a dildo and haven't fingered yourself--” You start, only for him to cut you off. 

“I've done that!” he huffs. You just end up laughing more as he tries to fumble out of his shirt. His position below you makes it a little harder and a moment later he's awkwardly stuck below you, arms caught in his sleeves. You'll take it, you muse, running your hands over his chest and abs. Finally he pulls his hands free, instantly holding you close. 

You can't help the sigh that escapes your lips. You loved spending time with Bertolt and you were eager to do things with him but you just felt...hollow. Despite the hits you'd had from the blunt--or maybe, partly because of it--you just wanted to lie down and sleep. That hardly seemed fair to Bertolt, though. 

He can immediately tell something's up; he's good like that, even when inhibited by however much he'd smoked. You look down to him with a small smile. 

“You okay?” He asks. You shrug, pause, then nod.

“Tired,” you admit. “I...Would you be okay picking this up another day?” Bertolt glances over your face as if trying to find what might be wrong. His whole body relaxes. 

“Of course,” he says softly. You breathe a sigh of relief and clammer off of him. He awkwardly cranes his neck and arms to take off the bra. At this, you can't help but laugh.

“I can't believe they had anything in your size,” you joke. Bertolt throws the bra at your face.

“It's a little small,” he comments as you narrowly avoid the bra. You pick it up and look it over. It was dark blue and soft. No silk, just lace. You wonder if you could pull off wearing something like that.

Bertolt starts to slip out of his khakis while you aren't paying attention. You don't notice until he's buck naked, clearly still half hard.

“ _ Oh my god _ , put on some clothes--” you cover your face, inexplicably embarrassed at seeing your boyfriend naked. You're vaguely aware of him covering his junk and poking around the room in search of apparently specific clothes. Finally he pulls on some sweatpants and settles down in your lap. You try to ignore the remains of his erection against you.

“Sorry,” he laughs. You can't help but join in. 

“What else do couples do for valentine's day?” He finally asks. You hum. 

“Presents and dinner,” you jokingly respond. Bertolt falls off you onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.

“The lingerie was your present,” he admits. “I kinda screwed that one up.”

“Uhh, no?” You snort. “I think I'd look great in lingerie.” Bertolt stares at you for a minute, looking you over.

“I mean. Okay,” he says dumbly. You grin. 

“And for you, I got chocolates,” you add. Bertolt's immediately snaps out of his uncertainty and confusion in favor of poorly masked curiosity. 

“Truffles?” Bertolt asks. His eyes seem to shine brighter at the thought. You snort out a laugh. 

“Yes, truffles.”

“I love truffles,” he responds, incredibly serious. You pull him in for a kiss, laughing more at the intensity of his expression. “I love you, and I love truffles.”

“I love you too,” you tell him with a chuckle. “So, dinner…”

“Well the truffles, obviously,” he says.

“We're not having truffles for dinner--”

You do, however, end up with his head in your lap and feeding him truffles as you watched a movie after dinner. The numbness is finally gone and you don't think you could have had a better valentine's day.

Maybe you were okay after all. Briefly, you can't help but wonder; had Bertolt ever thought that too?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for graphic depiction of self harm

Bertolt's father opens the door. You awkwardly shift on your feet as he takes in your messy appearance and your mother hovering behind you. Both of you have bags with haphazardly thrown in clothes and the like by your side, and it feels like your lip might be swollen up and bruised.

He doesn't ask what happened, just leans back and calls for his son. Bertolt comes trotting over a few moments later, only to freeze when he sees you. He almost looks scared.

“Can we, um...stay here for the night?” You ask. Bertolt and his dad share a look. Your boyfriend's quick to take you in his arms, pressing a kiss into your hair. You'd normally both be embarrassed over something like that, given your parents are standing  _ right there _ . But despite your father's previous words towards you, you readily accept Bertolt's affection. 

Your mom clearly seems hesitant, considering your relationship with Bertolt is apparently what started this mess in the first place. She follows close behind you into the Hoover's front room. 

“Are you okay?” Bertolt mumbles, eyebrows drawn together and frowning. You force yourself to shrug, slow and sluggish.

“I dunno,” you sigh. “I guess so.”

It was already 8:30 when the argument with your father had started.  You're not sure how long it lasted or how late it was now, but you're absolutely exhausted. You just want to curl up in bed and sleep for a few days. Maybe longer. Maybe forever--

No. Don't go there. It never goes well.

“What happened?” He asks quietly. You glance up to him. Then back down. You're vaguely aware of your mom and Bertolt's dad talking quietly in the kitchen while Bertolt guides you onto the couch. 

“My dad, uh...kicked us out.” You mutter, practically falling off your feet onto the furniture. It was such a welcomed break from standing on your feet for so long. You were so,  _ so _ tired. 

“ _ What _ ?”

You keep your head down, intently focused on your hands. You can't bring yourself to look at your boyfriend's expression; you know he'd feel guilty if you told him what happened, and you didn't want him to start chain smoking or something. He'd already done it once, towards the middle of January when exams had picked up. 

“He kicked us out,” you repeat, like it's no big deal. 

It was. It was a big deal.

“You know he's never really... _ liked  _ me,” you sigh. “It was probably only a matter of time.” Finally you glance up to your boyfriend. His expression is rigid and unhappy. 

"He can't  _ do _ that," he mutters. You halfheartedly shrug. It already happened, so what more could you do? You were 18 now; he wasn't legally responsible for you. 

Bertolt opens his mouth to object further, only to look down and lightly kicked the couch in frustration. You can tell he's thinking what you're thinking.

Silence falls over you two, heavy with emotion. It's not long after until your mom and Bertolt's dad appear; Everyone's conversations seem to have fallen flat. 

"Reiner can stay with Bertolt," Bertolt's father says. He shifts a little and adjusts his glasses. "Karina will stay down here on the couch." He says something else to her you only half catch about not having a guest room.

Okay, that was good. You weren't being kicked out again. You could stay here for the night, or maybe until things settled down.

Your mom sits down beside you. You should say something to her. You pretty much dragged her into this, like the selfish son you are. Apologize.  Instead, shame washes over you. You duck away and pretend that nothing’s wrong. You don't even spare her a glance, which almost certainly comes off as apathetic. 

You needed to get out of there. 

"I had dinner earlier," you mumble. "Can we just...go to bed right now? I'm so..." Tired? Hurt? What word should you use here?

The silence seems to be good enough for Bertolt, who pulls you in for a hug. You gladly accept it, practically nuzzling against him. Your feel tears pricking your eyes but force them away in favor of standing up. Nobody wanted to see a grown man cry.

"We're gonna go to bed," Bertolt announces. His fingers lace with yours. The thought does cross your mind to pull away, but you wouldn't let your dad's words win.

"Keep the door..." your mother trails off, as if remembering this wasn't her house. You hope your exhaustion doesn't show when you try to smile. 

"Open," you finish. Minute relief flashes over your mom's face.

The only several yard long journey to  Bertolt's room was suddenly the hardest thing ever. You're hardly able to pull off your shirt before you fall into his bed. The buttons of your jeans dig into your stomach when you force yourself to sit up again. Bertolt kisses you then, soft and slow. His fingers clumsily undo your pants as he leans back to see what he's doing. You're about to push him away--you don't want to do anything but sleep--before you realize yourself he's giving you a pair of pants to change into. You fell a little dumb for a moment for not realizing it.

When you're both in sweatpants, hallway light shining into the room, he falls into bed and settles in real close to you. Your shoulders are pressed against his back and his arms are around your waist. It's easily the most calming thing your boyfriend could do for you. 

Maybe it's the mental exhaustion or maybe it's Bertolt's warmth that make you instantly start to doze. Somehow, you feel...safer. 

"I love you," Bertolt whispers. Your eyes close.

\--And then open as you awake with a start.

You feel sweaty and overheated and Bertolt's arms are still around you. Certainly, that wasn't helping. Fortunately it seemed your boyfriend was still asleep, not at all bothered by your sudden movements.

The dream--nightmare?--wasn't very clear in your mind. You couldn't remember any of it. That was probably for the best. 

Anxiety works its way into your head and heart. It pulls you further and further down the ever exhausting spiral of  _ whys  _ and  _ what ifs _ . You know it's never a good idea to go down that path but you just don't feel you alone can stop yourself.

You want to do something to yourself. Something,  _ anything _ , to distract from these thoughts--No. Not anything. You shouldn't.  But you  _ needed _ to.

No. Don't.

_ Yes. Do. _

It's actually pretty easy to slip out of Bertolt's arms and pad downstairs. He was such a deep sleeper, you muse. 

Your mom lies fast asleep on the couch. You stop to glance over her and around the dark room. She looks to have been given what looks to be a pillow and some blankets. This settles your anxieties for a moment.

But only for a moment.

It would be better to just wake up her or Bertolt. They would both be glad to help you when you were feeling like this. Neither of them would ever want the alternative.

But no, you continue forward and into the kitchen. You practically grew up in this house, so you knew it like the back of your hand. Even with only a light from the hallway guiding you, you find your way to the utensils. 

You're incredibly aware of how  _ loud _ everything is; from the clank of the knife in your hands to the drawer sliding shut. Yet still you can hear your mom's snores from the living room, so you were safe. For now. 

The floor whines impossibly loud as you sneak to the bathroom, where the door squeaks as if it were trying to wake up even the neighbors. You flinch at the noise, gripping onto the knife tightly. 

You don't turn the bathroom lights on until after the door is locked. The sudden brightness blinds you for a moment and you have to blink to get used to it. Your fist is turning white with effort.

_ No, don't. _

The knife is worn from years of use, handle wiggling loosely when you adjust your grip. You turn it over in your hands with unnecessary interest, taking note of every notch in the handle and every small stain or dull area like your life depended on it. 

Where would nobody notice if you did this? Upper arms, thighs...if you wore socks maybe ankles? Nobody would probably notice any of that...Except Bertolt. He would notice no matter where, and you couldn't just suddenly act like you were shy about him seeing you without clothes. There was literally no excuse in your mind that wasn't somewhat suspicious. 

Something like that should be a deterrent, you think. If someone would notice, you shouldn't do it. That would be a sign not to go through with this if there was one. You can still back out.

You pull down your sweatpants-- _ Bertolt's _ sweatpants, which you were about to bleed all over--and roll up your boxers. Familiar red, pink and faded white lines greet you. 

No, don't. 

Don't.

Don't. 

Don't. 

Don't. 

Don't. 

Don't. 

Don't. 

Don't. 

_ Don't _ . 

_ Yes. Do.  _

Adding more, you grit your teeth and bite down on your free hand. Blood wells up but doesn't overflow from the shallow wound. It hurt more than usual, but you suppose that was a good thing. Finally,  _ finally _ you could focus on something other than the overwhelming waves of hopelessness and fear you'd been feeling for the past few hours. 

Your thoughts flutter back to what happened earlier with your father. The apathetic look you forced onto yourself as your parents fought with each other. The yelling dropping to whispers you couldn't make out and your father calling you over. You'd done your best to stay ahead off his complaining, but when was anything you did good enough for your father?

“So your mother tells me you and Bertolt are  _ together _ ,” he'd said, almost unsettlingly calm. You'd made no effort to confirm this as true.

The knife slices into your skin. Blood trickles down the side of your leg a little. You mindlessly spread it with the knife.

_ “My father would be ashamed of me. Look at what I've let my own child become. I should have left a long time ago.” _

The knife slices into your skin. The blade's lost it's shine, now grimy with blood.

_ “You are not my son.” _

The knife slices into your skin. You pick at the cut, as if that will make it bigger.

_ “No child of mine would be a fa--” _

“Reiner?” Bertolt's soft voice drifts through the door. You startle, almost dropping the knife and instantly reaching for the toilet paper to wipe your thighs clean. The blood is back a moment later anyway. 

“I'm, uh, I'm in here--” You mumble back. There's no response. 

Blood stains your skin and then clothes when you pull your sweatpants back up. Suddenly you realize you don't know what to do with the knife. If Bertolt was standing out there, you couldn't just waltz back out. 

Into the sink it goes, water trickling over and washing your blood down the drain. Normally you felt at ease after you cut, if only a little guilty. But now you hardly felt better than when you'd started.

The doorknob jiggles. You shut the sink off and halfheartedly hide the knife in the stack of towels before unlocking and opening the door. 

Nobody's there. 

Well, your mom is, but she's still sleeping on the couch. There's no sign of Bertolt. And there continues to be no sign of Bertolt until you tiptoe back to his room. He's still asleep, in the same position you'd left him in. 

Ah. So  _ that's _ how it was.

You can't quite ignore the thought as you crawl back into Bertolt's bed and close your eyes. The door creaks but you don't bother to look. It's not real. Warm hands-- _ hands?-- _ brush along your arms and back. When you open your eyes and glare through the darkness, nothing is there.

You wrap Bertolt's arms around you. He  _ is _ there. And he will still be there in the morning. 

For now, that's almost enough. Almost.

You sure fucked up this time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys im sick so i'm working a lot on this. comments will help me feel better ;)
> 
>  
> 
> anyway as someone who dealt with the urge to self-harm for a long time, and still does sometimes, you're absolutely not alone and i myself am welling to talk to you if you need someone!! :( its a nasty road to walk down alone and i hope someones there for you when you need them


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wasnt in the mental state to write this but now its Up

You don't go to school the next day.

Bertolt does, but he certainly tries to stay home. He spends a good hour trying to argue his way into staying in bed with you, or making a food he knew you loved. But in the end you must raise your voice just a little, because Bertolt flinches and quickly gives up afterwards. You go ahead and plan to reopen all your cuts from yesterday as a punishment because of it. 

At just before 11, you finally roll out of bed. The warmth Bertolt had left long since faded, pillow cold and comfort of the room dissipating. You'd been up for awhile now, staring mindlessly at the ceiling or occasionally glancing at your phone. 

Bertolt's dad is the only one home. The only indication he knows you're there is how he stops drinking from his glass for a moment. You don't really know what to say to him, so instead you sit on the empty couch beside his chair. A news station plays in the background but otherwise everything is silent.

Your mom's presumably at work or back at the house to feed Buddy. God, poor Buddy, having to listen to all that yelling and then being locked up with only your dad for the night. You wonder if you can convince Bertolt's dad to let him stay over here despite his allergies.

"Thank you for letting us stay here, Mr. Hoover," you finally say. You're sure it sounds like an empty thanks.

"Of course," he says back. His voice is soft, similar to his son's, but deeper and slightly accented. "You've always been welcome here."

Those words echo in your head.  _ You've always been welcome here _ . You weren't even welcome in your own house. Yet here...

All in all, Bertolt's dad is strange. 

He pushes himself up with a grunt and stretches where he stands. The TV remote gets placed beside you as he walks by without a second glance.

"I need to head to work now, but Karina should be back soon," he says, without waiting for an indication you heard him. You're a little surprised he's only just now going into work, but you're pretty sure Bertolt had mentioned his dad being home more often to try and mend their strained relationship. 

You and Bertolt had bonded over that when you were little, playing in your backyard with a babysitter you never kept in contact with glancing out the window every few minutes. 

_ "My mom left a few years ago," _ Bertolt had told you. _ "Baba is always busy with work." _

Maybe you're a little jealous Bertolt's father is making the effort to spend time with him. Not that it mattered. 

You turn off the TV as you hear the garage open and car drive away. Your reflection in the black screen stares back at you. Despite sleeping enough (for the most part), there are dark circles forming below your eyes. You rub at them before getting up.

If you wanted to do something else to yourself, now was the time. 

The idea stays there, at the forefront of your thoughts as you walk around the house and then into the bathroom. You pull out the knife from the towels and stare down at it. 

You said you would earlier...but you didn't really have the energy for that now? It took so much out of you, even if it left you with a vague high.

A vague high. Huh. 

Oh, of course.  You could just get high; why hadn't you thought of that earlier? Bertolt should have some weed around his room somewhere. 

Knife in one hand, you make your way to the kitchen sink to pick off any dried blood. Into the dishwasher it goes after you deem that someone would be unable to tell what you'd done with it last night. Nobody would be looking at a dirty knife in the dishwasher anyway, right?

Your mom still isn't back by the time you're lying face down in Bertolt's bed. It was too small for him--let alone both of you--yet somehow you'd made it work last night. Or, maybe you hadn't and you had been too exhausted to care. 

After a few minutes, you push yourself up again in search of wherever your boyfriend's hidden his pot. It doesn't come to you for a few minutes that you probably look like an asshole, going through your partner's stuff like this. You didn't even ask him if you could have it. 

The urge to hurt yourself comes back, but so does the sluggishness at the thought. You didn't want to put the effort in. 

There is indeed a bag in his room of pre-rolled blunts he got from either Zeke or Pieck. You're not exactly sure how to roll one, so thank fuck. 

So there you are, sitting alone in Bertolt's bed and smoke a blunt of goddamn marijuana. You're quick to decide it's not nearly as fun by yourself. 

In fact, it's a little...unnerving. 

At first it's okay. At first you feel maybe even a little better than when you'd started. But then that familiar haze creeps over you. You should move your arms, you think. Touch something so you know it's real. 

You don't. You just lay there and stare ahead as your place shifts around you. 

The bed might be in the air, but it could also be you? You're not sure if you're actually on the bed anymore. One leg rhythmically taps against the bed--you can see it, it's there--but you're can't tell if that leg is yours. How messed up would that be, someone's leg just  _ there _ .

Clearly that's not all that alarming though. Oh no, what  _ is _ alarming is the weird buzzing you feel for a few seconds. Your hand flies to where you feel it, your pants pocket, and you fumble to take whatever is in there out. 

Oh yeah, your phone. Duh.

There are no notifications on your phone. 

Even if there were, you can't seem to unlock it to check. The reflection of someone who is not you stares back when you put it on sleep mode. You pay no mind and toss your phone onto the bed in frustration. What a piece of junk. 

Wait. Your reflection. 

You make a grab for your phone again. Sure enough, you-but-not-you stares back. Sunken eyes and patched skin that make you flinch. 

You tilt your head; you-but-not-you does the same. You raise on hand and again it's the same. Have you always looked like that? Was that what people saw when they looked at you?

You should kill yourself.

What the  _ fuck _ kinda thought was that? That's so dumb. Imagine listening to your intrusive thoughts. 

You don't have control of yourself anymore. You get up, walk all the way downstairs and grab another knife. It's handle is more sturdy that the last. 

What the fuck? Stop it. 

You return to Bertolt's room with the knife and  _ stare _ at it. It would be so easy to just...stab it into yourself. You could tear yourself open and really hurt yourself the way you deserved. 

The knife comes up to your throat. And it just rests there. Your hand shakes but otherwise you don't move.

Stop it, Reiner. You're going to do something stupid. 

_ Do it _ , Reiner. You're going to do something stupid.

What the fuck are you doing.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

You glance towards the door, where Bertolt stands. At first you're sure you're just hallucinating again, but then he stomps forward and very much yanks the knife out of your hands. He haphazardly throws it off the bed and guides your head around in a circle to look for any damage. The touch sort of makes you want to smack him away. 

Instead, tears spring to your eyes. You fight to hold them in only to burst out into a sob. Bertolt quickly attempts to wrap his arms around you but you push him back. 

"Don't touch me," you hiss. His hands awkwardly sit there, body stiff and face twisted in confusion. You quickly decide that his hurt and anxious look is way worse and fall into him.

Neither of you speak for what feels like hours. You're too busy trying to get ahold of your broken sobs and breathing, but Bertolt has no excuse. What an asshole. 

Deep down you know you're being mean by thinking this. Bertolt hasn't done anything explicitly wrong. You just want to be angry and blame someone else for this mess.

He doesn't say a word until you pull back and meet his eyes. He's always shown all his emotions though his eyes and this time is no different; you can see the fear and worry. You look away. 

"I'm okay," you say coldly and well rehearsed. You focus on the bed to ignore your boyfriend's reaction. He doesn't say anything--doesn't even move--so you turn away even further. Of course he wouldn't even comfort you. 

"You're not," he says, voice clearly shaky. You keep up your facade. 

"I'm fine." Bertolt wasn't going to see you any weaker than he already has. 

"Your neck is  _ bleeding _ , Reiner, you're not--"

What? When had that happened? Your hands fly up to your neck, feeling for wherever you were injured. It stings when you finally find it, hand dark with blood when you pull it back. That was so much blood. You didn't want to die. 

Bertolt pulls your hands away to get a good look and abruptly gets up. You absentmindedly follow him, feeling a little dizzy when you stand. 

When you're out in the hallway the smell of some form of food his your nose. It dawns on you that Bertolt must've stopped by from school to give you some lunch. 

It makes you feel a little guilty. 

He sits you down on the sink countertop, wets a washcloth and rubs the side of your neck. Again, it stings, but this time Bertolt's warmth is pressed against you. You don't mind it that much anymore. 

"What were you doing?" Bertolt asks quietly as he puts a bandaid on your neck. You shrug. 

"I dunno."

He gives you a look but doesn't say anything else. The washcloth gets thrown into the dirty laundry pile and Bertolt very pointedly takes your hand. 

"Talk to me if you feel like this, okay?" He lifts both your hands to kiss yours. 

You want to tell him it's not that easy. Maybe you even want to yell and cry more. But the way he looks at you and how he squeezes your hand when you take a second too long to answer is bizarrely calming. 

"Okay," you tell him. "I'll try."

You'll try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> casually cuts chapter short so i can play pokemon


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHOKES wow it didnt take me like two months to update this, yeeheehoo

“Good afternoon!” Hange grins. “How are you today?” You try to smile back, or at least meet their gaze, but it just falls flat. Wow, your shoes sure were interesting all of a sudden. 

“Y'know,” you awkwardly laugh. “I'm okay, I guess. My dad kicked my mom and I out.”  _ Clearly _ nothing big.

You decide not to mention how you'd smoked marijuana and then sat in Bertolt's bed daring yourself to slit your throat open.

Hange's grin drops and they lean forward with a click of their tongue. They mindlessly tap their foot on the floor, almost seeming aggravated. You can't be entirely sure it's just a show, though. 

"You're 18," they sigh, "so it's not necessarily  _ illegal _ ." Yeah, that's about what you figured. He could kick you out if he wanted to. Hange shifts a little.

"Has he ever...hit you before?" They ask cautiously, head tilted to the side ever so slightly. You reluctantly shake your head. 

"I'm so sorry this happened," they sigh. "Please, call me if something like this happens. We can even set up an earlier appointment.

You've tried to stay positive so far, but that mood finally dissolves. You just wanted to go home and sleep. 

"How's your mood been throughout all this? I think you should try some medicine…" Slowly you stop processing the conversation.

You can't entirely remember what happened for the rest of the appointment. Suddenly you're in your mom's car and driving back to the Hoover's house. You don't focus on what she says either. Something about living arrangements. 

She pulls into the driveway and shuts the car off. Before you get out, she turns to look at you. 

"You need to go back to school soon, sweetie," she tells you. You blink. School had been completely forgotten about; you had been too caught up in what happened. 

"Okay," you echo. Suddenly you feel worse. You would get so many looks and questions, much less the school work.

The funk is thoroughly taking over your head and heart again. You trudge inside and kick off your shoes--

A familiar scrabbling noise and a bark catches your attention. Hardly a moment later, fluffy golden fur is in your face. Even despite your pitiful mood, you can't help but crack a smile. 

Buddy's wagging his tail so hard his whole butt's moving. His tackles you to the ground, tongue slobbering over your face and hands. You almost don't want to push him off, but you also don't want his tongue in your mouth. 

"Mr. Hoover said he can stay here as long as you and Bertolt take care of him," your mom explains from the doorway with a tired smile. "But he'd prefer Buddy stays off the couch and out of his room." Allergies, right. You decide in that moment Mr. Hoover is actually great. Better than great, even.

Your mom heads to the kitchen, but you're content to sit there with your arms around Buddy. You'd hardly even had the chance to stop and think about how this had affected him. He doesn't pull away for a good moment, until he's finally had enough and circles around you.  You push yourself to your feet with a grunt of effort and start towards the living room. Buddy dutifully trots beside you.

It's actually not even two yet, but Bertolt's already back from school. You're about to ask why, but then you catch sight of his upset face. His dad stands away from him, leaning against an empty door frame. The air is all sorts of tense between them; you almost back out of the room again. 

Bertolt spots you and his expression does what's almost a 180 in change. Whatever he'd been discussing with his father--you, probably, what else could it be?--forgotten to focus on you and Buddy. Bertolt's father quickly takes his leave to what you think is an office.

"How was therapy?" Bertolt asks, reaching out a hand towards Buddy. He gets a sniff and quick lick in response. 

"It was alright," you shrug. "I don't actually know if it's helping. I just feel exhausted." Bertolt sighs. 

"Honestly, me too," he admits. You offer a hand and pull him up when he takes it.

"I'm going to go out for a few minutes, but we can just...watch a movie in my room after that?" He asks. You nod; something easy like that sounded great right about now. 

"Oh! ...Can Buddy get on your bed?"

He looks down to Buddy and then up to you and laughs. "Of course," he tells you. "I dunno if he'll fit though."

Bertolt heads outside, without his shoes. You can sort of see through the window that he's standing on the porch and pulling out his vape. 

You head up to Bertolt's room and settle on his bed. Buddy stares up at you from the ground and you can't help but snort. His tail wags when you ruffle his head and then pat on the bed as an indication he could come up. He scrambles up and sits beside you. 

Bertolt appears a few minutes later, pausing at the site of Buddy taking up more of his bed than you were. He laughs and tries to squeeze in. Buddy shuffles on top of you and you end up half on top of Bertolt. 

"What do we watch?" You ask.

Your boyfriend pauses once more before glancing around and then scrunching up his nose. 

"I...think I left my laptop downstairs."

Realistically you could still untangle yourselves and grab it but Buddy had already moved around so much, and you liked this position with Bertolt's chest against your back…

"We can just watch whatever on my phone," he finally muses, clearly coming to the same conclusion.

You end up watching YouTube videos on Bertolt's phone. It's not much but that doesn't matter to you. 

Bertolt's chin rests on your shoulder. His warm breath fans against you. 

"I love you," he mumbles. You absentmindedly nod, zoning out and only focusing on the video. 

He smells like cotton candy vape. It's comforting. 

Bertolt was your home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u reiners dog for giving me the motivation to finish this! surprise that actually the Next chapter is the last!!


End file.
